Illfated
by Orme
Summary: The golden trio was now a duo, though with the presence of Draco, it could be that the redhead had been replaced. Yes, this might just be the distraction Pansy was longing for. If Draco could consort with the enemy, then so could she.


Author's note:

So. I haven't published a story in a long, long time. Hell, I haven't _ever_ finished my fics. Ahem. Anyway, this chapter is the beginning of a dron fic, believe it or not. There is no ron/draco action, sadly. It's more Ron/Pansy, and it even seems as if the fic would be about their relationship. I decided to post it as Ron/Pansy simply because I do not know if I'll continue it. Thus, for now, I have written a het about Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson. Totally weird--at least for me. I'm a hardcore slash fan. If I continue the fic, it'll change to dron. Regardless, this is a Ron/Pansy--what do you even call that?

Constructive criticism is welcome. Ignorance is not--aka: flames be warned, I'm an ass, which means I will retaliate in a most cruel and vindictive manner.

Oh, one more thing, I have edited this myself--if anyone catches any sort of mistake, please don't hesitate to let me know.

_***_

_How dare he!_

To say that she was pissed would be a gross understatement. Oh no, the Slytherin was absolutely livid. The anger currently consuming the pale girl continued to simmer, gleaming intensely in her dark eyes, as she glowered across the room.

"If looks could kill, Pansy, those two would be a smoking heap of ashes by now," Blaise Zabini casually commented.

Pansy turned her glare to her fellow Slytherin, "It's not like he wouldn't deserve it!"

"I'm not saying he doesn't, Pan, but you need to give it a rest. Pouting all night isn't going to change his mind," Blaise responded.

Pansy huffed angrily as she turned her hardened gaze once more across the room. Blaise let out an exasperated noise, throwing his hands in the air in mock defeat, before walking away. He wasn't about to allow the sulking girl to ruin his night of potential debauchery.

Pansy didn't even acknowledge his departure. She was too engrossed in the scene before her. Draco Malfoy, the Ice Prince of the Slytherin House, was, at present, wrapped in the arms of Hogwarts' golden boy, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Fucking-Die.

It was un-fucking-believable—that's what it was, downright, thoroughly inconceivable. When the rumors of a secret affair between the archrivals had first circulated, Pansy had been beside herself with the utter hilarity of it. Potter, number one enemy of the Dark Lord, and Draco, future Death Eater, falling in love? Not a chance. The entire notion was laughable. It never crossed her mind that there might have been some truth to the talk until one morning the two marched into the Great Hall hand in hand and heads held high. Defiance had glittered their gazes, daring anyone to challenge them.

Of course, in the beginning, many students had been shocked, outraged, and incensed. Incredibly, though, seeing the two endure the harsh criticism of their peers had forced most to recognize that they were, indeed, serious about it. This, unfortunately, warmed hearts and minds, allowing hope when there should be none. It sickened Pansy to think that everyone was okay with this, and even more revolting, the idea of Potter and Draco together seemed to excite both girls and boys of all Houses. Apparently, it was hot. Ech, she felt filthy just thinking about it.

The whole thing completely disgusted her. Pansy could, at least, be comforted by the fact that the majority of her House agreed with her sentiments. Thank Merlin she wasn't alone in her ire. This little fact, though, did nothing to dampen her fury; it only served to fuel the already raging fire.

She sighed sullenly. Here it was, almost a month since the couple had 'come out', and they seemed happy as ever. Tonight was the 'Muggle Appreciation Ball'; Muggle music was playing, and the students had been encouraged to don Muggle attire. Ugh, how degrading. The house elves had even prepared Muggle cuisine. And, to top it all off, she had to suffer through the vile display in front of her.

Potter was whispering in the blonde's ear words that would no doubt send Pansy straight to the loo, sick to her stomach. On his part, Draco was acting equally as nauseating, with his hands tangled in the Gryffindor's raven tresses, his lips locked in a dopey grin. Pathetic. To be sure, she almost wretched right then and there.

In short, this was one of the worst nights in her life. She hated seeing her once best friend (and more than slight crush, if she were to be honest with herself—which she wasn't), with someone she detested with every fiber of her being. She had always thought she and Draco would end up together, that they were meant for each other. It was what their parents had wanted, and they had openly expressed the desire to see the two married. It was, essentially, a huge slap in the face to know that he didn't feel that way about her and probably never did, given his attraction to his own sex. She hadn't even spoken to him since that ill-fated day, and, though she would not admit it, this was what hurt her the most.

If Pansy were the type to place blame where it was due, she'd have realized that his avoidance of her and all things Slytherin, really, was partially her fault. When his relationship with Potter had finally hit home, she, along with Blaise, rallied their housemates together, using their rage and intolerance of the golden boy to strike at Draco with brutal precision.

Though he hadn't shown it—he was the Ice Prince after all—he had been deeply pained by his friends' reactions. He had fervently hoped, in his heart of hearts, that Pansy and Blaise would have accepted this, if they had seen how important Potter had become to him. He was crestfallen, wounded, and knowing that he did not have the support of his House, he'd turned his back on them.

When it was evident that the Malfoy heir was not going to give up his newfound relationship, most Slytherins resorted to petty insults and shunned him from their lives. Blaise, at first just as angry as the rest of them, simply opted to ignore his existence most of the time, or feigned indifference when the blonde was brought up in conversation. He had been good friends with Draco—not terribly close—and his emotional ties ended there. For Pansy, it was not so simple to disregard the boy that had been by her side since she could remember, but she tried her damnedest to act as if she, too, didn't care for him at all. Otherwise, she feared her feelings would humiliate her in a most mortifying manner. She had a reputation to uphold, and uphold it she would. It was all she had now.

And so that cruel and spiteful incident was the last time they had spoken. For three weeks, Draco had all but moved into the Gryffindor Tower. To the surprise of most of the student body, the bulk of the lions had accepted him. However, the biggest shock had come from within the sacred golden trio. While the Mudblood girl had given her support (albeit with some reservations), the blood traitor, the Weasel, had been enraged. On fire, really. He had completely exploded, and the sheer might of his anger had sent Malfoy to the Infirmary for three days.

Ooohh, that had really pissed off his precious Potter. As far as Pansy knew, the two were still at odds—Weasley, unwilling to trust Draco, and Potter, completely maddened by his best friend's actions. Honestly, Pansy didn't think the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Leave-Well-Enough-Alone's shadow had the guts to disagree with him. She was, secretly, quite impressed.

Her mind still on the youngest male Weasley, her eyes traveled to the lone figure that occupied her thoughts. With the Great Hall dark and smoky, bodies gyrating to and fro with the ghastly pulsating beats of the Muggle music—Pansy vaguely remembered the term, techy or teshno—whatever. It was entirely beside the point. The point being, it was difficult to concentrate on the redhead at the outskirts of the Gryffindor crowd.

Weasley looked drunk. Well, completely pissed was probably the most accurate description. He was sitting at a deserted table, nursing a goblet of punch (probably spiked, given his current state). His normally bright, blue orbs were glassy, glazed over in an alcoholic haze. His cheeks were flushed a pleasant rosy color, and his full lips were set in a baleful scowl.

Huh. It seemed she wasn't the only one having an absolutely awful time.

Studying the Weasel further, Pansy found herself admiring the deep hue of red that colored his hair, which he had allowed to grow just above his shoulders. Normally, the Slytherin was a stickler about being well groomed, but the wild, tumbling locks gave him a savage, sultry look, accentuating his blue jewels and the milky white of his skin. As she continued to stare, Pansy was mildly startled to find that Weasley had grown into his height, and as he stood and lurched his way to the nearest punchbowl, she watched his form ripple with muscle. Somewhere along the seven years at Hogwarts, Potter's sidekick had transformed from a gangly, bony boy into a lithe, highly attractive man.

If it weren't for his dreadful fashion sense and misguided choice of friends, Pansy might've entertained the thought of bedding the Gryffindor. Warmth pooled in her stomach, her libido was apparently in full agreement with the suggestion.

The more she toyed with the idea, the more Pansy couldn't resist. After all, the Weasel had a falling out with his pals, didn't he? The golden trio was now a duo, though with the presence of Draco, it could be that the redhead had been replaced. Yes, this might just be the distraction she was longing for. If Draco could consort with the enemy, then so could she. With that last thought, Pansy went in search for a drink, preferably alcoholic and strong enough to knock out a troll.

* * *

Ron grimaced as he chugged the rest of his rather strong cup of hard punch, courtesy of his less than scrupulous classmates. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he heaved himself out his chair, swaying a bit before righting his stance.

_Must've had more than I thought_.

The redhead staggered to the closest punchbowl, filling his goblet to the brim for the umpteenth time. He was out to get absurdly sloshed, and by the looks of things, it appeared he would soon achieve that goal. If Ron were sober, he'd have noticed the harsh glares his housemates sent his way. He'd also be in a decidedly worsened mood too. However, Ron was nowhere near the vicinity of sober, and thus, oblivious to the hostile looks aimed at him. In fact, he was lost in an alcohol-induced bliss, reveling in the delightful buzz that was currently caressing both his mind and body into a state of warm leisure.

Back in his chair, Ron took another long swig, shivering slightly at the oozing burn in his limbs. He just wanted to forget—everything and everyone. He just wanted, for one second, to ease the ache in his heart and the tension in his mind. And he succeeded for the better part of the night; before his hard-won stupor was broken by someone he _really_ didn't want to face at the moment. If ever.

A frizzy-haired brunette had plunked herself in the chair next to his and proceeded to stare in a rather pointed and unrelenting manner. The Gryffindor did his best to ignore her, but evading confrontation had never been one of his strong suits. Finally unable to withstand her damned gaze any longer, Ron twisted brusquely in his seat, facing the slender girl.

"WHAT!"

"Ron Weasley! Don't you take that tone with me! I'm only trying to—"

"To what? Stare at me until you're cross-eyed? Just cut the shite, Hermione. What the bloody hell do you want?" he fired back hotly.

Hermione opened her mouth as if she were about to launch into a full-force diatribe, but miraculously, the girl was able to contain herself. She took a deep breath before she tried again.

"Ron, look, you've got to stop this vicious quarrel. Harry's your best friend; shouldn't you be supporting him? He needs you right now. You're being horribly selfish, you know. This isn't really about you. I can understand your confusion, and I can even understand that you feel betrayed, but, don't you see? This thing he's got going with Draco, it's about him, about his feelings, his well-deserved happiness. So, before you throw away everything, maybe you should stop and think about exactly what you're so rashly discarding," she said determinedly (and in Ron's opinion, condescendingly).

He could only stare, dumbstruck. But he was soon enveloped in white-hot fury. _How dare she!_ Hermione had _no idea_ how he felt. She had no clue what was going through his mind and to assume so was a grave mistake on her part. What she seemed to forget was that Harry's actions affected _him_ too. He had a right to his feelings, and just because they disagreed with Harry's didn't make them wrong.

Through gritted teeth, the redhead managed to hiss out, "Leave. Now."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, intent on a response, but Ron cut her off.

"I swear to Merlin, Hermione, if you don't leave me alone _right now_, you're going to regret inciting the very violent reaction I'm about to let loose," he growled, each word growing in volume until he was nearly shouting.

By the end of it, Ron had attracted a few onlookers, but he was both too drunk and too furious to notice. Hermione did. Deciding it best to retreat until another time, she gave the incensed redhead one last heated glare before standing and storming away. The disgraced Gryffindor groaned and hung his head in frustrated despair.

"What a bitch," a silky voiced drawled to his right.

Ron whirled around in his chair, squinting in the muted light to identify the owner of the voice.

"Parkinson," he spat, when he recognized her.

Holding her hands up in a pacifying gesture, she replied, "No need to get testy, Weasley. I'm just making friendly conversation."

The Gryffindor stared in disbelief before managing a sarcastic guffaw.

"Right. Sod off."

"Ouch, Weasley, that almost hurt. I'd be a bit nicer if I were you, considering I seem to be the only one willing to talk to you on amiable terms."

The smug amusement dripping from her voice was inflaming his already riled up temper, but before he could respond, the Slytherin girl plopped herself in his lap and curled her arms loosely around his neck.

Shocked into silence, Ron could only gaze at Pansy stupidly, mouth slightly ajar. She giggled at his reaction, obviously enjoying herself.

"Uh…"

"Haha, cat got your tongue, Weasel?"

The snide comment snapped him out of his stupor.

"Pansy, get off of me before I shove you off," Ron snarled.

Her sly grin only grew wider, and she tightened her grip around his neck. "Down, boy. Relax, like I told you before, I'm just being friendly," Pansy crooned.

The Gryffindor studied her face, finally taking in her flushed cheeks and faraway eyes. _Well, well, well. Someone's wasted_. Not that he could say a damn thing; he was probably twice as inebriated as the girl in his lap. Ron could only shrug in response. He wasn't sure how to deal with a drunken, sociable Slytherin.

Noticing his discomfort, Pansy wriggled her bottom, obviously pleased by the reddening of Ron's cheeks, not to mention the uncertainty glimmering in his cerulean depths.

"Ron—may I call you Ron?" she asked, but continued without waiting for an answer, "What say we get to know each other, you know, extend the olive branch and all that?"

He could only sputter drunkenly. What the bloody hell was she playing at?

"No? I figured it was a long shot. Then how about a dance?" She waited expectantly.

Ron's eyes widened, unsure if he heard her correctly. Dance? With pug-faced Parkinson? _Now?_ His expression turned incredulous as he gaped at her. No way. She obviously had something insidious planned, and even if she was just ridiculously trashed, there was _no way_ he was going to accept. Nope, uh-uh, not fucking happening. Except…the more he looked at her, the more he became aware of Pansy's appearance.

In truth, she no longer resembled a pug—far from it. It appeared she'd grown into her features: her face was heart-shaped, lips plump and garnet, and the up-turn nose that had given her the nickname "Pug-faced Parkinson," now served to emphasize the graceful slopes of her visage. The girl was small and pixie-like, which gave her a fey-like semblance. Her hair reached the middle of her back, the lustrous color of a starless night. Ron would never admit it aloud, but Pansy was definitely easy on the eyes.

He still hadn't answered her question, and, suddenly, he had no idea what to say. The Slytherin must've seen the indecision in his eyes because she stood swiftly (and a little wobbly), tossed both their goblets to the adjacent table, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to the dance floor. For some reason, one that he doubted he'd ever be able to explain, Ron didn't protest, but only followed her numbly.

Pansy led him to the center of the floor and pulled him close, once again wrapping her arms around his neck. The redhead swallowed audibly. _What the hell am I getting myself into?_

Apparently too slow for the pale girl's liking, she grasped his arms and guided them around her waist, forcing the two ever closer, their bodies brushing against each other. When they were situated, Pansy initiated the first gliding movements, matching her motions with the fast-paced beats of the song. Ron was a little more hesitant, unsure of himself. But when their eyes met, there was an unexpected _something_ in the Slytherin's eyes that made him shiver with anticipation. Allowing himself to get lost in the throbbing music, he moved his hips in time with Pansy's.

Soon, Ron was immersed in the swirling motions, devoured by the haze of booze and that particular atmosphere that only existed in thriving, dancing mobs.

While the two teens didn't realize it, this night was the first time in a month that they both forgot their troubles and lost themselves in another person. It was a night where neither Harry Potter nor Draco Malfoy existed.


End file.
